


between lions and men

by Joiedevivre



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Trojan War AU, extremely self indulgent, honestly if you know what happened at Troy you know what the risks are clicking this, this is more like Keith/Kuro tbh, warnings will be added as appropriate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joiedevivre/pseuds/Joiedevivre
Summary: What the gods have joined together, let no man put asunder.Unless another god says so.When war comes to the shores of Keith’s lands, his faith is tested, and his life is irrevocably altered.





	between lions and men

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fantasy story that’s been ripped from five other tropes and at least two mythologies. none of the gods have names bc if I say Keith is a follower of Artemis, then I have to actually look up what Artemis does and pretend like I care about accuracy, except I do, so to keep myself from going insane over minor details, I’ve made no attempt at (historical) accuracy at all.

 

 

“You’re beautiful,” the man says, and Keith can’t help but glance at him, his attention caught not from the compliment but from the measured, even quality of his voice. If anything, the compliment should be alarming, given Keith’s position.

 

He flexes the fingers of his right hand, then his left, wrists aching where they’re bound above his head. He could swear the leather ties are actually tighter than they were when he was first bound, not looser as they should have been for all the struggling he’s done. He imagines his wrists swollen, his fingers thick and stiff and bloodless, and he tries to swallow his pride.

 

“Isn’t that why you took me?” his voice comes out as soft as he wants it to, but for all the wrong reasons. It’s fear that wells up in his throat and makes him half mute, not silken sensuality.

 

His captor steps in front of him for the first time, and Keith takes in the chiseled shape of his jaw, straight lips, and dark glint of his eyes. Last of all, nearly obscured by the low light, when the man leans closer to look at him, Keith can see the wide line of a scar cutting a near perfect arc across the bridge of his nose. He recognizes the man instantly by that feature, one known by legend throughout many lands.

 

“You,” he says, fury blazing in an instant. “It’s not enough that you come here to raze our great city, you must profane the gods as well?”

 

The man leans back again, his mouth quirking curiously. “Profane the gods? How?”

 

Keith twists his hands, renewed anger giving him the strength to rub his skin raw on the restraints, sensation flooding back into his numbed fingertips with a rush of blood. “I’m an initiate at the temple,” he spits. “Sworn to the chaste goddess of the hunt. If you touch me, her wrath will fall upon you!”

 

Thus challenged, his captor seems unable to resist the urge to call his bluff. He reaches out, hand hovering under Keith’s jaw at first, then cupping under his chin and lifting his head to stare into his eyes. Keith flinches as the man’s calloused fingers meet his skin, but there’s no sign of divine displeasure from above, and Keith is left paralyzed, pinned in place by a steely, intelligent gaze from which he can’t break away. The man glances around as they both wait several long seconds.

 

“Hmm. Nothing.” He looks at Keith again expectantly.

 

Keith closes his eyes and suppresses a sharp inhale that feels like the start of a sob. He has to be stronger if he wants to survive this, has to be, _please goddess, protect me, keep me safe, suffer not the hands of men to fall upon me,_ he pleads, words forming dry on his lips and slipping out in a near silent whisper under his breath.

 

“Stop,” the man says, and Keith goes silent in an instant. “I’m not going to- stop,” he says again, and thankfully, Keith recognizes it’s not a threat as the man tries again. “It’s not my intent to harm you,” he says. “Understand? If I had intentions on your honor, I wouldn’t have taken you away from my men and brought you here.”

 

Keith is not comforted by the thought, but one could hardly expect him to be. Dragged from the sacred temple in the early evening when the first city wall fell, he’d been terrified, hysterical, as the cruel, dirty hands of soldiers grasped his body and carried him back towards their camps on the beaches. Two men had seized his arms, another his hair, and a fourth set of grasping fingers tore at his tunic as he had screamed for deliverance. He had not expected it to come, and he had not believed he was saved when a powerful man in gleaming armor came upon them, and clearly outranking the others, seized Keith and hauled him back to his own tent. He had had plenty of time to contemplate his fate in the time since then, as he’d been bound the center pole of the tent and left for several hours.

 

“I came to these lands to fight soldiers in a war. Not to frighten nymphs helplessly bound in their nightclothes. I’m a general, not a monster.”

 

Keith is young, but old enough to know the terms do not exclude each other, indeed, they often go hand in hand. He can see the way the other man glances over him, up and then down, lingering looks over his chest, low on his waist, skimming his thighs. With his arms above his head, the skirt of Keith’s tunic is lifted high on his legs, leaving him with little cover, even if his temple robe were not sheer white to the point of leaving nothing to the imagination. He has never been so exposed in front of others; he has certainly never been outside the temple in such attire.

 

“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t trust my virtue in your hands so easily.”

 

“Your virtue?” the man’s eyes fly to his face. “You’re- still - you’re a-“

 

Keith manages not to roll his eyes. “I just told you I was sworn to the virgin goddess, didn’t I?”

 

“Yes,” the man says, and under the bright cast of the moonlight pouring through the gaps in the tent ceiling, Keith recognizes that his face is flushed; he is not sure if from excitement or embarrassment. “You were taken from the temple,” the man says, insight finding him late.

 

“I said that too,” Keith says, voice growing still sharper, and the man ignores him, opting instead to lift his hand and stroke Keith’s face with the back of his fingers.

 

“You haven’t known a day’s hardship in your life, have you?” he asks. “What’s your name?”

 

“Keith,” he says, enduring the touch steadfastly.

 

“I’m General Shirogane,” the man says, also ignoring Keith’s interjected “I know who you are” speaking over him “and I command these armies.”

 

“Yes,” Keith snaps. “You’re Zarkon’s lapdog, the mad man’s right hand. You lead his soldiers across our lands, raping and raging and burning, you massacre our men and steal our children to feed your dreaded war machine. How many nation’s children have been enslaved in Zarkon’s army to oppress anyone would fight your evil empire?”

 

Shirogane lets his hand fall and steps away, his face changing. “War is an ugly business,” he says. “Gods willing, this will be over soon.”

 

“When your vile king takes back his lady,” Keith snaps. “You have no right - Princess Allura has chosen Lotor. She’d rather die than go back to his father. Even the gods have declared for her.”

 

Shirogane shakes his head. “The whims of a love goddess cannot defy the war-forged father of iron, the elder god who gave her first to Zarkon. His will is clear.”

 

“Have a care, General,” Keith warns, righteous anger giving him courage. “I would not speak lightly of a goddess who has already altered the fate of nations. She is more powerful than you know. You, your emperor, your war god and all his weak willed men - none of you are safe.”

 

Shirogane nods slowly, but he looks around as he does so, his gaze seeking out the empty corners, his hands spread to gesture at the space around them, looking last and most pointedly at Keith’s hands where they are bound above his head. “And yet,” he says calmly, unprovoked by Keith’s outburst. “I feel safe here, lovely one, in my own tent, with my sword at hand and my men outside. How safe are you?”

 

Keith feels a lurch in his chest, and he swallows back his reckless anger, the effort of it choking his breath as he forces the fury beneath the canopy of fear overtaking him in an instant. The man before him has killed thousands, Zarkon’s most trusted general, commander of the Black Legion, the Lion of Daibazaal. He doubts that Shirogane would hesitate to kill him in an instant if he should cross him.

 

He should count himself lucky if he escapes with his life and mind intact, much less his virtue. Up close, Shirogane is much larger than any mental picture Keith could have imagined before - the slope of his shoulders spanning out the width of his body, arms bulging with curves of muscle that look carved from marble, all tapering in to the narrow cut of his waist. Keith watches in silence Shirogane turns, lifting his arms to loosen the ties of his breastplate, forearms flexing as he strips the armor from his body. Underneath the heavy armor, he wears a dark, sweat soaked tunic that sticks to the prominently ridged planes of his chest and abdomen.

 

“Should I fear the goddess’s wrath?” Shirogane asks suddenly, and Keith feels a jolt as he knows an answer is expected.

 

“No,” he hesitates, licking his cracked lips. “You haven’t harmed me, yet. So why should you?”

 

“Something unchaste in your expression,” Shirogane wears the hint of a smirk even as he unclasps the tunic from his shoulder, letting the fabric fall around his waist to reveal his bare chest, and Keith feels the flush of warmth overtake his face.

 

“You should be ashamed,” Keith fires at him. “Exposing yourself like this to me, knowing that I- that you- you, a man and a warrior, I’m not, intimidated by your- virility! My goddess will protect me, and if you harm me, she’ll greet me in the golden fields and welcome me as a martyr!”

 

Shirogane listens until he finishes, splashing water from a basin over his face and drying his hands on the lower folds of his chiton, a smile growing on his face all the while as Keith runs out of steam.

 

“You’re more exposed than I am,” he points out, looking Keith over again deliberately, and Keith wishes he could cross his legs, anything to cover himself.

 

“Keith,” Shirogane says, tasting his name for the first time, and he doesn’t stop looking. “You’re so lovely. With that dark hair you could almost be Galra. Tell me, Keith. Why do the dedicates of the virgin goddess dress so inadequately? Is it to tempt men, so that you may extract the blood prizes required by a goddess who also patrons the hunt?

 

“The temple wear is for worship,” Keith says, his cheeks still aflame. “The goddess may see our true forms, so to honor her, we do not try to obscure it from her view. Others are not welcome to it.” _Now avert your eyes,_ he thinks with desperation. To his surprise, Shirogane is already turning away.

 

“I meant what I said,” Shirogane says. “I have no intention of harming you. You don’t have to worry.

 

Keith wishes he could laugh, unable to believe the other man fully despite his restraint so far. “Your reassurances offer little comfort,” he informs him, “when I am bound and put on display for you to leer and mock.”

 

“Peace,” Shirogane says. “A moment, please.”

 

Keith can do little else but wait, fuming, as Shirogane sets his cuirass near his weapons against the far wall, only to return to Keith and closer than ever. Keith pushes back on his toes, scrambling to keep as much distance between them as he is able, as Shirogane looms over him, the scent of battle sticking to his skin, a powerful musk that intrigues and terrifies Keith in the same breath. It should be hideous, damp, sour sweat, but all he can smell is smoke and fire and iron, and perhaps beneath, sharp copper blood stinging his nostrils. He can see no blood on Shirogane’s exposed skin, but he thinks there is a faint spray across his chiton. He doesn’t dare look down again to see, not at all certain how Shirogane would interpret another glance below his waist.

 

“I know that you’re frightened of me,” Shirogane murmurs. “You really should be, no matter what I’ve told you,” he says, and Keith’s breath catches, “but only if your prince wins this fight.” He touches the diaphanous, wispy fabric of Keith’s sleeve, rubbing the delicate material between his fingers. “If Lord Zarkon is victorious, he will be kind to your city. Your men fight bravely for your princess, and he understands their plight. If he wins, he will deal fairly with you. You’ll fall under his protection. I’ll return you to your temple myself and leave a generous offering to the goddess who kept you safe. That I promise you, lovely one.”

 

Keith’s heart hammers in his chest; lightheaded as he pictures the future Shirogane describes with Zarkon’s dark banners hoisted high above the city ramparts, his soldiers in shining mail marching through the streets. He sees himself turning on the last stair of the great stone steps climbing the ancient hill to the goddess’s temple, looking down at Shirogane, who kneels at the foot of those stairs with a basket of fruits, the choice harvest, expensive oils, imported from far lands, holy incense to honor her name. The vision is intoxicating, and for a moment he finds himself wanting it, anticipating the future that could be. But he catches himself quickly, shoves back the fantasy dangled before him, and tries to remember the grim reality he faces.

 

“And if... Prince Lotor is victorious?” he begs faintly. “What happens then?”

 

Shirogane releases the fabric between his fingers, his expression darkening with resolute intent. “War,” he says simply. “There will be no end to it. Zarkon will suffer no defeat to stain his name. Should it come to pass, we will burn the city and punish every life within it for their defiance.” He touches Keith’s cheek, an echo of the earlier touch, and brushes a thumb over his cheekbone. “So pray for Zarkon’s victory, pretty one.”

 

 


End file.
